A Bridge Too Far
by KitKatt20
Summary: A revenge-seeking thug, a high-speed chase, and an unfortunate psychic. Three things that should never happen in sequence.
1. Chapter 1

A Bridge Too Far

Shawn loved being at the Santa Barbara Police Station at night. He couldn't quite explain it, but it gave him a sense of accomplishment, especially after a real big case went down. If he had to compare it to anything, it was like someone leaving the office after an honest day's work and expecting a promotion in the morning. Of course, the check held loosely in the psychic's hand pretty much reinforced this feeling, honest work or not.

It had been a busy week. Chief Vick was the first to pull him in on a drug cartel case that could prove monumental for their status if they closed it quickly enough. The group they were looking for moved fast. They'd visit a city, make their deals with customers, and skedaddle before they even left of trace. The SBPD was lucky enough to get a hit on one of their members in the area, and from then on, time was a blur. Shawn hadn't even noticed a week had gone by and they were hot on the tails of their suspects due to one of his own leads. They had managed to catch the majority of the cartel, along with most of their stash, right when they were about to flee, leaving only a few to get away.

So here he was, strolling out of the station after a long day of being congratulated and flaunting his importance. This case had been huge, and he was already looking forward to what other adventures he could have in the future.

Stuffing the check into his pocket after giving it one last glance, Shawn headed toward his bike, which was sitting comfortably in the Head Detective's parking space. The lot was mostly empty except for a few other cars, the night shift officers either out patrolling or inside doing desk work, leaving it eerily silent after such an excitement-filled day. He was just about to pull out his keys when he spotted headlights turning into the station, his heart leaping somewhat when he recognized Lassiter behind the wheel.

"Lassie!" Shawn shouted, trying to hide his smirk when he saw the look on detective's face. He stopped on the curb and waited for the cruiser to pull up fully before waving briefly. Lassiter seemed to be making every attempt at ignoring the psychic, turning off the engine and getting out without saying a word to him.

Unfortunately for the cop, Shawn seemed intent on having a little fun with him before his ride home, and hopped forward. "What, no congratulatory greeting? No 'good job, Shawn' or a hug that I know you've always wanted to give me?" he asked, spreading his arms wide, like he was expecting it to come any minute.

Lassiter's jaw clenched and he sighed, finally stopping to glare at Shawn. "I don't have time for you tonight, Spencer. I want to get this over with so I can go home," he said brusquely, gesturing to the back seat of the cruiser. Shawn just then noticed that there was a man in the backseat, handcuffed to the bars that separated the front seat from the back. The psychic actually recoiled somewhat when he caught the glare from the thug, filled with so much hate and malice he had to stop and wonder what he did to get such a stare.

Shaking his head, Shawn looked at Lassiter, trying to avoid the tense gaze of the criminal. "Is he one of the… druggies that ran away?"

"Yes. Caught him right before he was about to leave the city limits. Had a whole stack of the drugs in the backseat to prove it," the head detective replied, sounding a little proud of himself. Shawn could give him some credit on that one, because car chases were really not his forte anyway; he suffered through enough of that to last a lifetime.

"Ah, well, good work, then," he said awkwardly, not used to praising the detective. He stood there expectantly, watching Lassiter open the back door and pull out the thug. When he said nothing in return, Shawn raised his arms like he'd been offended. "Not even a grudging 'great job, Spencer' as a response?" he asked, now crossing his arms, a pout on his face.

Lassiter shook his head, closing the door to the cruiser and heading up the steps with the criminal in tow.

"Aw, come on, Lassie! You guys wouldn't have caught them without my help! You owe me!" Shawn knew he sounded a bit whiny and arrogant, but he'd kill to see, just once, words come out of Lassiter's mouth that weren't derogatory or something that criticized the way he worked. Sure, he may deserve it most of the time, but Lassiter couldn't deny that he got results on nearly every case he worked on.

The head detective stopped at that, and turned to look at Shawn with his fiery blue eyes. "I don't owe you anything, Spencer. No one deserves any special treatment just for doing their job. That should include you as well." With that, Lassiter turned on his heel and started up the steps again.

Forgetting the fact that Lassiter had just sounded vaguely of his father with that statement, Shawn stood still for a moment before waving his hand dismissively at the detective, even though he couldn't see it. He'd just have to try and vie for those words of praise some other time. He jogged back to his bike, swinging a leg over and fastening his helmet on. Revving the engine several times as he turns on the ignition, he begins pulling out of the parking space, pausing when he hears something over the purr of his motorcycle.

"SPENCER!"

Turning in his seat to look back at the entrance to the station, an unusual sight greeted his hazel eyes. Lassiter is somehow collapsed on the stairs leading to the entrance, holding a bloody nose but also scrambling to get up at the same time. The next thing he registered is a looming figure sprinting toward him. Shawn wasn't sure how it was possible for the thug to become so terrifying in the span of less than a minute, even with hands still cuffed in front of him.

"Oh, shit."

Trying to ignore the panic that seemed to overcome him out of nowhere, Shawn gripped the accelerator tightly and pulled back, almost doing a full wheelie due to the sheer force in which he sped up. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lassiter pull out his gun, around the same time that he noticed headlights brighten his rearview mirror. Shawn cursed under his breath when he realized the man must have stolen Lassiter's keys in the scuffle and tried to tear out of there as fast as he can before the car can catch up to him.

Shawn started to hear a steady popping sound in the distance that could only be construed as gunfire, and winced, expecting to get hit at any minute. The police cruiser hurtled out of the parking lot after him, nearly crashing into several other cars on the road in the process. The side windows are cracked due to bullet holes and Shawn can only hope that Lassiter would be on their tail soon.

Quickly, Shawn does a once over in his mind to see if he could remember anything distinguishable about the man. He had dusty black hair with long, graying sideburns and a rough beard. Judging by the way he had stumbled out of the cruiser and how he was driving now, he could safely assume that the criminal was on some sort of drug, especially if he was part of the cartel they tracked down. Shawn's blood ran cold when he thought about that, thinking maybe this man could possibly be out for revenge for taking down their operation. He had announced his involvement right in front of him. He prayed desperately that the man would be more interested in getting out of the city than exacting vengeance.

Shawn watched as they sped through one, two, _three_ intersections, with the police cruiser behind him going no slower or deviating from his path. The psychic attempted to keep his fear in check and tried to ignore the fact that the man was slowly gaining ground on him. He was approaching a tricky red light now, but he couldn't afford to slow down. Gripping the handle of his bike for dear life, he sped through the intersection. His breath caught in his throat as he was narrowly plowed into in his side by a car going the opposite way, missing him by inches. Looking back over his shoulder, Shawn tried to suppress the whoop of joy he released when he saw that his pursuer was not as lucky, and was checked brutally to the front end of his vehicle.

Gently easing off of the accelerator, Shawn began to look for an alternate route back to the station, because there was no way he was going to go through that intersection again. Spotting a side road, he quickly took, more out of impulse to get as far away from that thug as possible than actual direction. He soon became aware that he was shaking slightly, and his breath was coming out in short puffs due to the adrenaline leaving his system. Assuming he was far enough away, Shawn slowed to a stop so he could get a hold of himself, not wanting to crash because of it.

He was just considering whether or not to call Lassie, when a sound once again caught his attention. The squeal of tires echoed across the area and Shawn turned to see the battered police car make a wide turn onto the isolated road at startling speed. The right front end of it was bashed in and smoking somewhat, but it seemed to have no effect on the car's functionality. Shawn gritted his teeth and muttered something along the lines of 'are you freaking _serious?_' as he once again gripped his handlebars and tried to speed out of there as fast as he could. Unfortunately, the cruiser already had the head start in speed and caught up to him in no time.

_Never run in a straight line. A straight line is the shortest distance between two people._

Shawn wasn't sure how that particular phrase popped into his head at that minute, but he figured it wouldn't hurt to try. He compensated by zigzagging back and forth, causing his pursuer to swerve all over the road due to the state of the driver. His heart must've stopped several times when he felt the front of the cruiser bump into his wheel and almost cause him lose control of his bike. Noticing that he couldn't keep up this routine forever, he decided to attempt something different. He hated it, and knew it could very well end badly, but he had little choice.

Making sure there was still a considerable stretch of road in front of him (they had somehow stumbled across the loneliest street in Santa Barbara), Shawn made a surprise move and swerved to the left, almost off the road. As expected, the cruiser reciprocated. Clenching his jaw and hoping this would work, he then leaned far back to the right as if making a u-turn. It was incredibly dangerous, because doing a stunt at that speed could throw him off the bike easily.

Shawn watched in almost a slow-mo fashion as the cruiser made to ram into the side of his motorcycle, and almost cried out in relief when it missed him by inches. It was incredibly short-live though, because the second after that, he didn't move far enough away from the side of the cruiser and the side mirror slammed into his shoulder. Shawn didn't even have time to cry out in anguish as his entire right side was forced backward due to the speed of the police car, his bike spinning out of control and throwing him into the air.

Thankfully, he had been close enough to the side of the road so he could land not-so-gracefully into the long grass. He skidded several feet and his head cracked against the hard ground due to the force of the fall. Shawn was vividly aware that, had he not been wearing his helmet, the impact would've killed him. The sheer fact that he was _aware _and not unconscious annoyed him to no end. That emotion paled in comparison, though, to the pain that now racked his figure. It took every effort not to cry out in response.

While any other person would have at least sat there to gain their bearings, Shawn quickly tried to sit up, knowing the danger had not yet passed. He swore he had heard tires screeching to a halt after his crash, and knew he had to get away before the criminal found him.

Shawn quickly found out that he couldn't move his left arm that much, and if he did, a wave of agony would course through his body, making him stop to catch his breath. If he had to guess, it would be a dislocated shoulder or a broken arm. He was leaning more toward the broken bone scenario. Shawn hugged his arm to his chest and took off his helmet one-handed. Bracing himself against the fence that bordered the road, he slowly stood to his full height.

Then quickly ducked back down into the grass.

The thug in question was strutting up the side of the road, his stride determined. Even from under the dim light of the street lamp Shawn could see the pupils of his eyes, wide like saucers, pretty much confirming his theory that the man was high on something. He must've coasted in the car a bit before stopping, because the police cruiser was about a half a block away. His bike was still visible on the street, only half-covered by the weeds, and that seemed to be the criminal's target.

"Crap, crap, crap, crap," Shawn muttered in a mantra, his mind frantically trying to decide what to do. He stuck his hand in his jacket for his phone, but it must've fallen during the crash, because it was no longer there, and he didn't have time to search the grass for it. There was a descending hill within crawling distance of him, and judging by the side barriers on the road, it was a small bridge of sorts, probably over a creek or river. Finding no other option, he started to head toward it at a crouch, trying not to disturb much of the grass and keeping his arm close to his chest so he wouldn't jostle it too much.

"Come out, psychic! I know you're here somewhere!" Shawn froze when he heard the man, who he would now call 'Dusty' due to his haggard look, shouted into the dark. He had reached his bike and was frenziedly searching the perimeter. The only good thing about this situation was that Dusty didn't seem to have a gun, even though he was sure that Lassiter kept a spare in the glove box. The psychic quickly scrambled forward out of panic when he started cutting through the grass.

This turned out to be a bad move though, because the criminal noticed the rustling and started sprinting through the grass in his direction. Shawn could only go so fast, still disoriented from the crash and his arm hurting worse than ever. He abandoned his attempt to hide out in the ravine, not wanting to fall down a hill in the dark and add even more injury to his list. He veered off back onto the road and to the bridge instead. It seemed to be the brightest spot on the road, covered by to street lights. The only thing Shawn could hope for at this point was that a car would somehow drive down the road and see them. And at this time a night, it didn't seem likely.

Hearing the footsteps steadily come closer behind him, Shawn finally skidded to a halt under the light and held up his hands in surrender. There was no definite way to know if Dusty would stop to hear him out, but he really preferred this option than running through the darkness to just get pounced. To his relief, the thug gradually came to a halt as well, but his expression was not reassuring; a twisted mix of hate and excitement on his crazed face.

"Can't we just, uh, talk about this?" Shawn started, taking several steps back on fear alone, still cradling his arm.

"I don't think so," Dusty said, sneering at him. "You messed up my whole operation. Do you have any idea how long it took me to set that up? Two years. And you knocked it down in one night. For that, you pay." He started walking toward him at an agonizing pace.

Oh, awesome. Not only was he one of the deranged druggies, but he was the _leader_ of the deranged druggies. "You don't have to look at it that way! Maybe, think of it as an official start to your rehabilitation. A positive change to your life! All those drugs can't be good for you." Shawn knew his argument was weak, but he was backed into a corner in this situation. A rat in a cage with no cheese.

"Somehow I don't see prison as a positive change," Dusty replied coolly, continuing his slow stride.

"You don't have to go to prison. Why don't you just leave now? I promise, I won't tell anybody," Shawn pleaded; it was getting desperate now.

"I plan to, as soon as I'm done with you." Dusty cracked his knuckles, now close enough to the consultant to invade his personal space.

Being so close to the felon, taking in his dreaded appearance, smelling his putrid breath, Shawn just couldn't take it anymore. He wasn't going to go down without a fight, even in his flimsy state. He was tired of being pushed around. Maybe he didn't become the cop his father used to be, but he certainly knew how to protect himself. He was starting to understand a little better why being a cop was so important to his dad. To keep scum like this off the streets.

"Screw it."

Shawn slammed his fist into Dusty's face.

Dusty recoiled to the side, nearly falling to his knees due to the force of the blow. Shawn just stood there for a minute, looking like he didn't even know what happened. He didn't know it would hurt so much either; he had never punched anyone before. His eyes widened as he caught Dusty's gaze after he recovered, which was positively murderous. Blood was dripping down his chin from a split lip and Shawn didn't think he'd ever seen someone so crazed.

"Uh, sorry?" Shawn weakly said.

Shawn was greeted with a fist to his chin. Before he could even register the hit, he was falling backward. He whipped out his good arm to try and catch himself, but it was no use, and he crashed to the ground, the back of his head hitting the cement pretty hard and sending his world into a spin.

He didn't even have time to reorient himself before he felt hands gripping the front of his shirt and hoisting him upward. His back slammed into something hard, and he had to crack open an eye to realize it was the solid barrier that bordered the road and looked over the ravine. If Shawn didn't realize it before, he certainly knew he was in trouble now.

Several more fists and a knee to the stomach resulted in the psychic gasping, looking for air he could not find. His back scraped upward against the barrier by Dusty's strong hands until he was almost sitting on it, hovering dangerously close to the ravine below. Shawn's head lolled, knowing that glancing behind him would not help things. The pain in his broken arm was strangely numb now. He barely registered Dusty saying something, the grip on his shirt slowly loosening.

It was over. Dusty had won.

"Freeze!"

Both men looked up at the sound of the new voice to find Head Detective Carlton Lassiter, stepping forward, his perfect aim directed toward the thug's heart. His usual sour expression was twisted up into something unreadable. If Shawn had the energy to greet him, he would have, because nothing had given him more relief at that moment than seeing him there. He vaguely wondered how the cop had been able to sneak up on them without notice, but quickly wiped it from his mind. Dusty's face was incredulous, and if possible, even more rage-filled than possible.

Lassiter took another several steps forward, gun still poised to shoot. There were bright, flashing lights heading up the road behind him. He glanced at Shawn and fought the urge not to wince. He looked horrible. Hair and jacket covered in the rock dust that surrounded them, several bruises and scratches etched his face, and judging by the way he held his left arm like a ragdoll, a broken arm. There could be other injuries not immediately seen from this light either. His grip on the gun tightened as his gaze turned back toward the thug, expression filled with malice.

"Let. The psychic. Go." He ordered.

Instead of complying like Lassiter thought he would, Dusty just smiled, looking evil and sinister. The cop's eyes narrowed as he realized what he was about to do before it even happened. He started to move forward, but he knew it would be too late.

"As you wish, detective." And he let go.

Lassiter watched as Shawn Spencer fell backward and disappeared into the abyss below.


	2. Chapter 2

Lassiter liked to think that he had the world figured out. When you thought about it, life could be very simple for an average person. Go to school, get a job, buy a house, and live your life. There wasn't much else you could really do with that except for the occasional detours that involved vacations or finding distractions that would otherwise lead you to _think_ about your day-to-day activities. Criminals were not so different in their own lifestyle, just with varied changes. Go to school, drop out of said school, fail at finding a job, and take advantage of those who make the right choices. Of course, not all felons were like that, but Lassiter liked to think that the more twisted ones didn't come from anything construed as normal.

Staring at the damn drug addict now, he could safely say that the man was anything but normal. His eyes were wide and empty, filled only by a drug-induced haze of paranoia. A man whose entire enterprise was destroyed by the quick work of one Shawn Spencer. It looked like he would stop at nothing to get what he wanted, and at that point, what he wanted was something Lassiter could not allow to happen.

He should've seen it. That carelessness that brightened his crazed face, showing no reaction to the gun that was being pointed at him. The criminal didn't seem afraid to die, and the danger only seemed to fuel his desire to achieve his goal. Despite this, Lassiter had voiced his order clearly; let the psychic go, and no one had to get hurt.

In hindsight, it really wasn't the best choice of words he could have chosen.

He saw Dusty's grip loosen before it even happened. He tried to prevent it by rushing forward to catch him, but Shawn was falling into the darkness before he had even taken a step. There was nothing he could do to stop it. As that thought sunk in, Lassiter found himself contorting his features into an expression of disbelief, staring at the empty space that was once occupied by the psychic.

Taking advantage of his shock, Dusty reared his ugly head and proceeded to stampede toward the detective like a rampaging bull, the smirk never leaving his face. Lassiter snapped out of it quickly enough to catch the fist that was sent flying toward his jawbone. Appearance set in a clear mask of determination, he grasped the thug's outstretched hand and swung it backward so that Dusty's arm bended behind his back, effectively incapacitating him.

Lassiter relished seeing the smirk quickly leave the man's face, but he could also recognize the look of an impending begging fit anywhere, and he just knew he wouldn't be able to resist the temptation to shoot him if it started. Instead, he raised his gun and cracked the barrel of it over Dusty's head, knocking him out. He didn't have any regret as the thug crumpled at his feet, even though to any other officer, putting him in handcuffs would have been just as efficient. Lassiter didn't even hesitate as he made a break for the ravine, sprinting to the edge of the bridge and stumbling down the steep hill. The police cars were not far behind, and they could take care of the unconscious convict.

After saving himself from a few nasty falls, Lassiter finally made it to the bottom of the ravine, his eyes searching frantically around the area for anything familiar. It was extremely dark down here, with only the moon and part of the rays of a street lamp to serve as a light source. Most of the bottom of the ditch was just covered with rocks of various sizes in shapes, but in the middle, a creek flowed, probably deep enough to reach Lassiter's knees or higher.

The head detective's breath hitched as he thought about what he might find. He didn't think he could deal with the sight of the broken body of Shawn Spencer. He had wished many a time that some sort of physical harm would come to him, sure, but not like this. Not when he could've been saved if he had been more careful. If he hadn't let that cretin escape out of his own custody.

As the guilty thoughts raced through his mind, he honestly couldn't help himself when he let out a sigh of relief when he saw a familiar figure in the water, just for the fact that he had landed in the impossibly small pool of water and not on the sharp rocks around him. The relief quickly abated, though, as he stumbled forward and got a closer look.

Shawn was lying facedown in the muddy water.

Visions of past drowning victim cases flashed through his mind briefly, but then he shook his head to rid himself of them, not wanting to assume the worst. He quickly splashed through the creek toward the prone form. Desperate fingers grasped the worn-out jacket and pulled him upward, bringing Shawn's head out of the water for the air needed to keep him alive. Lassiter waited, but didn't hear that urgent intake of oxygen that he was hoping for.

"Jesus, Spencer," He couldn't help but say, wrapping his arms around the psychic's torso and hauling him out of the water with so much gusto, it as if they were swimming in lava. As he was laying Shawn down on the rocks, he vaguely heard the sound of cars pulling up on the bridge above.

"I need an ambulance down here, godammit!" he roared, not even checking to see if he had been heard as he set about the task of checking Shawn's vital signs, oblivious to the sharp rocks that pierced the skin of his knee as he kneeled.

Lassiter attempted to ignore the small trickle of blood that was oozing from the back of the psychic's head, abandoning it for more pressing matters. Like breathing. He held two fingers to Shawn's wrist, and then did the same to his neck, desperately searching for a pulse. When he got none in response, he leaned back and tried to quickly remember the basic steps for CPR (in this case, CCR) he had learned at the academy. Avoiding the giant elephant in his plans that told him what he _might_ have to do, he skipped to the more obvious portion of the procedure.

Interlocking his hands on top of each other, Lassiter placed them on Shawn's chest, and started the rhythmic compressions associated with the method. He counted mentally when exactly he had to push downward, being careful not to cause any further damage to the battered psychic. It was eerily silent as he continued the compressions, the police lights from up above on the bridge flashing blue and red over Shawn's pale face repeatedly. Lassiter could hear what he assumed were a couple of paramedics trying to make their way down the steep incline, though they were having some trouble with their supplies and stretcher.

This was the last place Lassiter ever expected to be on this Friday evening. He wasn't lying when he said he had wanted to head home after getting off for the weekend, because, believe it or not, he did have a life outside of his job, no matter how hard it was to believe. There was a Die Hard marathon on the television tonight that he had been looking forward to, a Chinese place that he wanted to order at before they closed, and a phone number on a piece of paper that he had gotten from a girl he had met at the local grocery store that he wanted to call. No, that certainly shouldn't be hard to believe.

Guilty thoughts still threatened to take over his control as he looked down at Shawn, who was showing no response to the CPR. It had all happened so fast. One second, he was guiding that thug up the steps to the station after promptly putting Shawn in his place, and the next, he was on the stairs, nursing a possibly broken nose. The felon somehow was able to headbutt him without detective noticing in time, and he had to watch as he sprinted down the steps toward the unfortunate psychic. He only had time to shout a warning to Shawn and watched as he sped away on his motorcycle, some relief flooding through him.

At least, until he had seen the criminal steal his car. _His_ damn car.

Everything after that was merely protocol, abandoning his emotions and becoming the head detective he was supposed to act like in all of these situations. Notifying the rest of the police force, calling in backup as to where the suspect was heading and how there was a civilian who could possibly be in danger. He had taken the keys of another police cruiser and sped off as the other officers were still trying to get organized. He'd be damned if he let that thug do any other damage other than selling weed.

But he did let it happen. He knew as soon as he pulled onto that bridge and saw those two figures. One, small and crumpled, and the other, tall and threatening. Lassiter never noticed how small Shawn looked until that moment, caught in the hands of a criminal. He never noticed how much he sacrificed in his line of work. He had no experience with any kind of police work except what he had learned from his father, but he ended up doing a lot of what the detectives do now, even without any kind of license. Despite the belittling comments that Lassiter constantly threw at him (and lets face it, he did deserve it at times), he still continued to solve cases and put away the bad guys, no matter what risk it was to himself.

Now, his repressed emotions threatened to spill forth from his carefully concealed mask as he continued the compressions, knowing they might not even work at this point, and Shawn's life may already be out of his hands. He knew he should wait for the paramedics to come and finish the procedure, but he also knew that the longer a person's brain goes without oxygen, the greater chance for brain damage.

"Come on, Spencer, don't you _dare_ make me do this," Lassiter whispered to him through pursed lips, his maneuvers becoming desperate. He couldn't let this happen, and no matter how much he hated it or how much ridicule he might receive, he couldn't let Shawn die because of his reluctance. He started to lean down.

Then stopped as Shawn opened his mouth and inhaled a huge breath.

Lassiter could scarcely believe it as he quickly moved back and Shawn spit out a mouthful of water, trying not to think how close his mouth had been to that. Shawn coughed harshly and turned to the side and retched a bit, most likely as a side effect to his concussion. After the fit, he leaned back, unfocused eyes beginning to open and look around. As he did so, he suddenly shot up into a sitting position as he was afraid of something, and Lassiter had to keep a hand on his chest to stop him from further injuring himself.

"Easy, Spencer."

Shawn craned his neck to look at him, and looked as if seeing him for the first time. "Lassie?" he croaked, attempting to lift his arm, but then moaned as he moved the wrong one. Lassiter never thought he'd be so relieved to hear Shawn's voice, and had to gently ease him back onto the rocks so it wouldn't be so painful. Shawn seemed to be immediately jumping to conclusions, taking in Lassiter's wet clothes, his own wet clothes and his bruised chest from the CPR. His eyes widened like saucers as some emotion akin to panic started to show on his face.

"Lassie… you… you didn't, uh…"

If he were in any other situation, Lassiter would have laughed at Shawn's reaction, but after seeing the serious look on his features, he shook his head quickly to reassure him. "No, I didn't," he said in a 'that's final' sort of tone.

"Oh, thank _god_," Shawn exclaimed loudly, dropping his head back down on the rocks as if the weight of the world had just been lifted off his shoulders. The paramedics _finally_ decided to show up, and swarmed around the psychic as Lassiter backed off, watching from a distance. As they were wrapping his arm in a temporary splint and checking for other injuries, Shawn started to chuckle out of nowhere and motioned Lassiter to come closer. When he did, he started to whisper to him.

"No offense, detective, but I don't think Timmy and Lassie were ever meant to get past first base, no matter how many times he saved him from the damned well."

Lassiter blinked, and looked at Shawn oddly as he was being lifted onto the stretcher. He had to assume that that certain comment had been a side effect of the concussion, and even from the corner of his eye he could see that the paramedics were fighting to keep smiles from showing on their faces. And as they made their way up the hill, allowed himself a small smirk as well, because no matter how many times he would deny it, Shawn did have a propensity to make the people around them laugh, and in his line of work, that was something they needed. He watched as they loaded him onto the ambulance, putting an oxygen mask over his face, but stopped one of the EMTs as they were about to close the door.

"Hey, Spencer," he called. Shawn lifted his head a bit to look at the detective, a lopsided grin still on his face. Lassiter hoped that he would out of it enough to not even remember what happened tonight, but he couldn't let him leave without saying one thing.

"Good work."


End file.
